


Shmi Skywalker and Breha Organa have a cup of caf at the edge of the universe

by Kirjavi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Gen, canon adjacent, just two ladies having a chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/Kirjavi
Summary: The café is a nice one, even if the edges are a little soft, a little indistinct. Soft tapestries and blurred paintings cover the walls, and there are no chairs, only the floor piled high with cushions and pillows. The air smells like the warm fragrance of caf, with the sweet sugary scent of pastries and sweets overlaying it. The air is filled with the low murmur of voices and clink of cups against plates, even though only two figures can be seen. It is a place of comfort, and rest.Shmi Skywalker and Breha Organa are having a cup of caf at the edge of the universe.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Shmi Skywalker and Breha Organa have a cup of caf at the edge of the universe

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a podcast analyzing mothers and maternal figures in Star Wars and now I crave nothing more than two powerful ladies sitting down and having a bit of a chat. Both Breha and Shmi, to me, are just really interesting characters and it's such a shame neither of them get as much screentime as I'd like.

The café is a nice one, even if the edges are a little soft, a little indistinct. Soft tapestries and blurred paintings cover the walls, and there are no chairs, only the floor piled high with cushions and pillows. The air smells like the warm fragrance of caf, with the sweet sugary scent of pastries and sweets overlaying it. The air is filled with the low murmur of voices and clink of cups against plates, even though only two figures can be seen. It is a place of comfort, and rest.

Shmi Skywalker and Breha Organa are having a cup of caf at the edge of the universe.

Across a low table, Breha leans against the wall and Shmi sits on a cushion, a blanket about her shoulders like a mantle. Shmi wraps her hands around her mug of caf, relishing the warmth, and takes a slow sip. Blue milk just doesn’t taste the same here, but she enjoys the taste all the same.

They sit comfortably in silence, their ease of manner belying the difference in status between the two women. Titles are irrelevant here.

“So it is your name,” Breha says, “that has broken the galaxy.”

Shmi laughs. It is a wonderful laugh, colored with pain and loss and the joy that lives on in the cracks in between. “You could say that,” she agrees. “You certainly do not pull your punches.”

Breha smiles and takes a sip of her own caf. “I should hope not,” she says to her cup. “Holding my tongue was never a strong suit of mine. I’m afraid I passed that on to your granddaughter.”

“You know, I barely even remember when I took the Skywalker name,” Shmi says. “It was so long ago. And when I had Ani—”

Breha nods. “It’s hard to keep track of things. It reshapes your life.”

“Yes.” Shmi swirls the caf in her cup. “I remember I wanted something grand. Something Utto couldn’t touch. What was more untouchable than the sky? I would be the one to walk on the edges of the horizon.”

Breha nods. She knows when to listen, after all. There is a difference between holding her tongue and listening, and this is what being a queen, a minister, a teacher, and a mother has taught her.

“When Anakin came along—I knew, you know? I knew he would be the one to do it. To grab the sky. I could feel it. Something thrummed inside of him. Something sang.”

Breha casts her a glance. “I know what you mean. Mine was the same way. She felt so strongly—headstrong, but altruistic in her stubbornness. Things seemed to shape themselves to her.” She reaches out a hand, adds another spoonful of sugar to her caf. “Were you sensitive? Did you have that same gift?”

“Never as strong as my son, but sensitive, yes.” Shmi smiles wryly. “They seem to have written that out, afterwards.”

The corner of Breha’s mouth quirks up. “I understand.”

“I never lost hope.” Shmi looks up. Two pairs of brown eyes collide. “That was the extent to which my gift reached. I never lost hope. I knew there was something else planned for my son. That he would not die a slave.”

“You died a free woman,” reminds Breha.

Shmi snorts. “And then my son slaughtered a village, yes.”

Breha looks down, appropriately chastened. “I’m sorry.”

Shmi reaches across the table and pats her hand. Her skin is warm and dry. “It’s all right,” she says. “I did die free, after all. Owen was a good son, and Cliegg was a good man. I lived a full life.”

“The good and the bad,” Breha says. “It is not as sweet without the salt.”

“Queenhood is its own burden, though, is it not?” Shmi wraps the blanket tighter around herself and looks at Breha. Her eyes are warm, steady, as she looks at the woman who died in the middle of her prime. “And a mother on top of that.”

The pulmonodes whir in the still air as Breha sighs. “When I spoke to your daughter-in-law, I told her I was unable to separate the Queen from Breha. It felt—not disingenuous, because I could see for myself how passionate Padme was as the Amidala. I just couldn’t make that distinction. I wanted to be as much of myself as possible. I wish I was able to learn, sometimes, but—”

“But you did the best you could with the decision you made.”

“Yes.” Breha looks down at her mug, watches the steam rise. “I just thought—I was so sure I would have more time,” Breha says. “I was so _sure_. When Leia returned from her mission, I was going to take her with me to negotiate on Kashyyk. Bail and I were going to take a leave of absence for the first time in five years. There was so much more I had to do.”

“Do you feel like you did a good job?” Shmi’s eyes are warm, but sharp.

Breha takes a deep breath and lets it out. She had never truly learned how to mask her emotions, and it had cost her in politics just as much as it had helped her gain popular trust. “Yes,” she says at last. “There are some things I would have chosen to have done differently looking back at them, but I would not trade that chance to redo them for what I am proud of. I am proud of Alderaan’s people who were off-planet when we were slaughtered, who keep our culture and stories alive. I am proud of my daughter and the legacy she is leaving. I can see the work of our hands carried in her words.”

Shmi nods. “You have lived a weighty life. You have much to be proud of.”

Breha’s caf is still hot and she just misses burning her tongue when she takes a sip. “What about you, Shmi Skywalker? Birth-giver to the Skywalker name? Do you feel like you did a good job?”

Shmi is silent for a long time, and Breha has almost resigned herself to not getting an answer when she begins to speak. “We had. . . almost nothing. And everything we had, I gave to him. Food, shelter, love, attention—with the trades I could make, I found pieces of scrap and tech and taught him to assemble circuits. I taught him everything I could. To find pride in work. To find peace within himself. To find scraps of joy where he could.”

She is silent again, as if pulling something up from deep within herself. “I think,” she says at last, “that I did the best I could. And when I felt him pass, I felt peace in him that he had lost when I left him behind. He died with joy, and peace, and pride. And that is all I can ask for in the end.”

“I see the ones who carry my name bringing light,” Shmi Skywalker says. “I see your daughter speaking for those who are voiceless. I see her brother laying the foundations for the rebirth of those who would keep the balance. I think I did the best I could, and that must have been enough.”

Breha bows her head. “He never forgot you, I think,” she says. “His love for you broke the world, but the lessons you gave him live on in the rebuilding.”

“Yes,” Shmi says. “I think you are right.”

And the two women sit in silence again, the smooth bittersweet taste of caf and milk and sugar rich and heavy on their tongues. Around them swirls the impressions of the café, warm and still and peaceful. They sit at the edge of the universe, and wait for a chance to pour another cup of caf.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted to my Tumblr [here](https://a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com/post/638695624532967425/a-flickering-soul-i-would-simply-like-more-fics/). Come sip some virtual caf with me.


End file.
